


The Adventure of the Bloody Bath Mat

by SuiteJayne



Series: John and Sherlock Visit Iconic Retail Establishments [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (sort of), BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Domestic Fluff, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 04, Swedish home furnishings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25195222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuiteJayne/pseuds/SuiteJayne
Summary: Sherlock discovers a murder victim while shopping at IKEA. Can he solve the riddle of the dying man’s last words and find the killer?Just pure silliness.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: John and Sherlock Visit Iconic Retail Establishments [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1912993
Comments: 13
Kudos: 81





	The Adventure of the Bloody Bath Mat

“What am I doing here, John?”

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“As I explained, since I brought home the new bath mat you have complained daily about how it feels underfoot. Therefore, you are here to choose a new one,” he said with what he felt was great self-restraint.

Rosie wriggled in the baby carrier strapped to John’s chest and observed, “Gah.”

“A better course might have been to buy one of each available bath mat for me to try at home,” Sherlock observed.

“Perhaps, but we got up early to beat the crowds, we made an hour-long journey on public transport with a one-year-old, and we’re here now, so just _choose a bloody bath mat_.”

Sherlock shot him a displeased look. 

“Dull.”

“Sherlock...” John began in a warning tone.

“However, you are correct that this is the most expedient course at present.” 

Sherlock furrowed his brow and perused the options. Then he grabbed a bath mat and spread it on the floor. He removed his shoes and socks. 

“Are you really going to--” John began.

Sherlock stepped onto the bath mat and wriggled his toes.

“The TOFTBO has all these little bumps,” he said. “They feel reasonably pleasant under present conditions. But how would they feel if my feet were wet? Could you please fetch me a bottle of water from the cafeteria?”

“No, I could not,” John said. “In fact, I’m leaving you to it. Rosie needs a change. Then I’ll be looking at high chairs. Text me when you’ve picked one.”

“Fine.”

John wove through the masses crowded around stacks of shockingly affordable toilet brushes and shower curtains. He found the men’s loo, but there was no changing table inside. Frustrated, he joined the queue of exhausted parents and squalling children waiting for the family restroom.

“Progressive Swedish company, my arse,” he muttered. “How on earth does IKEA not have a changing table in the gents’?”

Sherlock, meanwhile, was comparing thread counts and fabric composition. Once one started comparison shopping it actually provided quite a bit of fodder for the analytic mind. A 100% cotton bath mat would be more durable, he supposed, but a polyester blend would dry more quickly. Still, the primary factor remained foot feel. He stepped on another option, a fluffy white ALSTERN, and observed that it had a red stain. He frowned. Could they parlay this into a discount? 

He crouched to inspect the stain. It was round; an inch or more in diameter. He pulled out his magnifying glass. There were tiny splash marks around the stain, and the fabric was still wet. If he didn’t know better, he’d say it was a drop of blood--a big one, a recent one, the kind that would come from a substantial wound. Sherlock looked around. Nearby he noticed a yellow sign warning that the floor had recently been cleaned and might be slippery. He felt a prickling sensation as the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. 

Sherlock walked over to look more closely at the sign and quickly spotted more blood on the side of a bin of towels nearby. The floor was almost completely dry; any mopping had occurred at least an hour ago, before the shop had opened. Mopping the floor was something that would happen after closing unless there was a spill of some kind. But what kind of spill would occur before the shop opened? And would draw blood, to boot? He pictured a smashed bottle of elderberry cordial, a cut on someone’s hand. No, the Swedish foods were located beyond the cash registers; why would such an accident have happened back here in the bathroom section? This was odd. It was more than odd, it was suspicious. 

He followed the mop’s vanishing trail before it could dry completely. It led him to a janitor’s closet, but the door was locked. Working quickly with a credit card and a bent paperclip that he kept handy for just such an occasion, he jimmied it open to reveal a man lying passed out on the floor, bundled in bloody VÅGSJÖN towels.

Sherlock knelt to feel the man’s pulse; it was very faint. He hesitated to move him for fear he might reopen his wounds and worsen the bleeding. He needed John. He needed Lestrade. He pulled out his phone. Suddenly the man’s eyes opened. He looked panicked.

“I’m here to help you, can you talk?” Sherlock said, setting aside his phone. “Who did this to you?”

“Song...sand…” the man said.

“What? What does that mean?” Sherlock gripped his shoulders. The man shuddered and his eyes closed again. He slumped back, expiring before Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock peeled back the towels to confirm that the man had several wounds to the chest. He lifted the man’s shirt; a cursory examination told him that he had been viciously stabbed, probably with a chef’s knife wielded by a left-handed assailant who was taller than the victim.

Sherlock leaped up in a delightful rush of adrenaline. Song and sand! A puzzle! His favorite kind of clue! He couldn’t wait to tell John. 

Hang on, someone had just been murdered. Maintain decorum. Look solemn. Contact the authorities. 

He picked up his phone again and dialled Lestrade. No answer. He sent a text.

_Murdered man in IKEA broom closet. Last words: SONG SAND_

A thought occurred. It was possible that the murderer was _still in IKEA_. God knew you always spent longer there than you intended.

He sent another text.

_Attempting to locate murderer. Will text if apprehended._

Now to find John and the murderer, in that order. The game was on! Sherlock attempted, and failed, to suppress a grin. But then another thought occurred.

“Rosie,” breathed Sherlock. He immediately called John, but the phone rang out.

\--

“Can you not wiggle quite so much, darling? It makes it really hard to--,” John said, keeping one hand on Rosie’s tummy to stop her from turning somersaults on the changing table, and with the other hand attempting to unfold a fresh nappy and maneuver it underneath her. He heard his phone ring, but he didn’t exactly have a third hand to answer it. It was probably just Sherlock with a rant about the inadequacy of the bathroom furnishings.

Just then, Rosie peed again. Why did this always seem to happen during a change? Something to do with the liberating feeling of being suddenly naked from the waist down? With a sigh, John grabbed a large bundle of toilet paper to mop up the table.

\-- 

Sherlock left a hasty voicemail.

“John, there may be a murderer on the loose in IKEA. You and Rosie need to get out NOW. I’m going to attempt to locate and subdue the culprit. Alert shop security _after_ you’ve left the building; I don’t want Rosie anywhere near here. The killer may still be armed.”

Alright. Decision time: should he search the building first or pop into his mind palace to work on the puzzle, assuming that the solution might provide some advantage in tracking the criminal? _Song and sand_ … He free associated. Sand: beaches, tropical vacations… Song: "Under the Boardwalk." "Kokomo." "Margaritaville"? This didn’t seem promising. Just then, a reply from Lestrade arrived.

_Is this a joke?_

_No._ He added an eye-rolling emoji.

_You’re at IKEA now?_

_Bathroom section._

_Okay, Donovan’s on her way. I’ll be there soon._

Before Sherlock could shove his phone back in his pocket and leave the closet, another text from Lestrade.

_Song and sand rings a bell. Are you sure he didn’t mean SONGESAND? It’s the name of a wardrobe; I just built one for my daughter last weekend._

A wardrobe? He needed to find the bedroom furniture section, _right now_.

After five minutes of blundering through labyrinthine displays of colanders and tea kettles, Sherlock finally forced himself to confront an employee in her cheerful yellow striped top.

“Bedroom. Quickly!” he barked.

The young woman looked him up and down.

“You don’t waste any time, do you?”

“What?”

“Listen, I don’t usually like it when men come on strong, but in your case, I might make an exception.”

“What are you talking about? Oh,” he suddenly understood. “No, no, no. I need to know where the bedroom furniture is. Right away!”

She raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. 

“Lives may depend on it!” he shouted. “Oh for God’s sake, never mind.”

He turned to go, but the young woman grabbed his elbow.

“Left at the silverware display, right at the picture frames, right again at the floor lamps, up the stairs, left at the throw rugs, past Småland, and you’re there.”

“Thank you,” he said with relief.

She smiled and winked. 

\--

John finally finished cleaning up the changing table one-handed with Rosie in his left arm. He wiped it down with one of the antibacterial wipes he now kept at the ready at all times, then laboriously washed his hands, passing his squirming daughter from arm to arm. Finally he juggled her back into the carrier and adjusted the straps around his shoulders. 

He took a look at the two of them in the mirror. Rosie, fascinated, looked at her own reflection with wide eyes. Then she raised her eyes to her father’s reflection and broke into a joyful and almost completely toothless smile. John smiled back. He looked at his own reflection. He was a bit haggard, admittedly--fatherhood would do that to you--but he also looked...happy. 

Maybe they should stay and eat lunch here. They’d come all this way, and John loved eating in cafeterias. They reminded him a bit of his army days. He wondered if he could persuade Sherlock to split a piece of Daim cake with him.

\--

A winded Sherlock arrived in the bedroom furniture section only to be confronted by what seemed like endless wardrobes. His heart sank; then he heard a text alert.

It was from Lestrade; it was a photo of the completed SONGESAND. Very tasteful, Sherlock had to admit. 

Quickly locating the floor model, he flung open the doors. Inside, in place of IKEA’s usual selection of nondescript display clothing, there hung a blood-soaked shirt and trousers. He could see from dimensions of the clothing that the murderer was about his height, so likely a man. He also judged that the killer weighed at least two stone more than himself; if he was going to confront him, he would need a weapon. 

It was clear what had happened; the murderer had stashed his bloody clothing here and donned the clothing that had been in the wardrobe for display purposes. There was little chance the size would be right, so the criminal would be easy to spot in his ill-fitting clothing. Sherlock turned to scan the room. 

Piles of floral duvet covers...mountains of pillows…a rabbit warren of end tables...and throngs of bargain hunters. Just then Sherlock noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye; the door to the gents’ opened and a tall man stepped out furtively. His trouser legs barely overlapped with the tops of his socks and he looked as though he’d had to labor mightily to do the button up. Similarly, his chest strained at the buttons on his plain white shirt; the sleeves, too, were much too short, reaching only halfway down his forearms. The total effect was, perhaps, slightly less conspicuous than going about soaked with blood, Sherlock conceded, but it was nonetheless not a difficult leap to peg this man as the killer.

Sherlock looked around for a weapon and grabbed the closest thing to hand--a TVÄRFOT lamp. Trailing the cord, he sprinted toward the suspect. The man noticed him, and with a wild look in his eyes, took off running. He ducked into Småland, no doubt intending to use the employee exit inside to make his getaway. But Sherlock was right behind him. He launched himself at the killer, tackling him, and the two tumbled together into the ball pit as children screamed and parents scooped up wailing toddlers and fled. 

For a moment Sherlock lost sight of his foe as he flailed among the colorful plastic balls, then the two surfaced at the same time and, using the other man’s surprise to his advantage, Sherlock smashed the ceramic base of the lamp over the killer’s head. Stunned, the man disappeared once again into the plastic balls. Sherlock was about to dive in after him to secure his hands with a zip tie (also kept handy for just such an occasion), when he heard knocking. He glanced over at the window that looked into Småland. To his horror, John and Rosie were standing there. John waved, a puzzled look on his face. Rosie wiggled. 

Suddenly the killer burst out of the ball pit and attacked Sherlock, seizing his throat with both hands. Sherlock punched him in the face but found himself falling backwards and plunging back into the plastic balls. Somehow, Sherlock’s fingers closed around a shard of ceramic from the broken lamp and he sliced at the killer’s face, drawing blood. The man let go of him with a yelp and waded to the edge of the ball pit--but John was standing there, pointing his gun at him. 

“Hands above your head,” he said calmly. Gasping with his exertions, the man complied. 

John turned to Sherlock.

“What did I miss?”

But Sherlock was zip tying the man’s hands together, then his feet, with an expression of mute fury. He stepped out of the ball pit with as much dignity as he could muster and seized John’s shoulders. John was taken aback by the desperation in his grip.

“Why are you still here?” he shouted. “How could you put Rosie in harm’s way? How could you put yourself in danger? Why are you carrying a gun in IKEA?” 

“Stop shouting!” John shouted. “And for God’s sake explain to me what’s going on!”

At least, that is what he would have said if Sherlock’s mouth hadn’t suddenly smothered his own with an urgent kiss. Still snug in her carrier, Rosie giggled as she was gently enfolded between them. Sherlock released John's shoulders and raised his hands to his face, drawing him still closer into the kiss.

\--

“Is that your _third_ ice cream cone?” John asked as Sherlock sat down at the table with another chocolate-and-vanilla swirl. 

“They’re only 99p,” Sherlock replied around a mouthful. “Do you think Rosie would like some?”

“She’s too young.”

“Just a bite?”

“Did you even read the book I got? The Royal College of Pediatrics does not recommend giving sweetened foods to children under two,” John replied testily. “Besides…” He trailed off.

“Sherlock, where are your shoes?”

**Author's Note:**

> I like the TOFTBO.


End file.
